To approximate, in words, strange and contorted longings feels impossible. I am not as articulate as I hope to one day be (when I am old). And even then, I suspect I will be misunderstood because people will only communicate in texts in the future.
T once told me that I need to stop seeing everything I do as entirely purposeless. Which is ironic, given the sheer volume of things I do. If we met, over coffee, or dinner, you would never know how cynical I am capable of being. I don't even know where it came from, given the number of peace rallies I have attended, the number of times I have had tear gas sprayed in my eyes. We exist in our own solipsistic bubbles of mental real estate. We pass each other by as if in cars at an intersection. Perhaps we even recall moments when it wasn't such. We can't be read as easily as we'd like.
How did the spaces between us become so vast when once upon a time it simply wasn't so?
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